An Unexpected Family-Reunion
by Eruantalon
Summary: Luthien takes a wrong turn in Angband and meets an unexpected quartet. The battle of words will surprise both sides as each unveils more and more about the other...
1. Concealing

Three cheers for the First Amendment! This story is written in confidence that Suntrust v. Houghton Mifflin (268 F. 3d 1257 (2001)) correctly declares that "an encapsulation of _[a copyrighted work]_ [that] exploit[s] its copyrighted characters, story lines, and settings as the palette for the new story" is still protected under the First Amendment even "if its aim is to comment upon or criticize a prior work by appropriating elements of the original in creating a new artistic... work," so long as it "adds something new, with a further purpose or different character, altering the first with new expression, meaning, or message," rather than simply trying "to avoid the drudgery in working up something fresh." In short, "The fact that _[the author]_ chose to convey _[his or her]_ criticisms of _[the original work]_ through a work of fiction... does not, in and of itself, deprive _[the new story]_ of fair-use protection."

Arda and all its parts are copyrighted by the Estate of J. R. R. Tolkien. Poetry in italics is by J. R. R. Tolkien, taken from the _Lay of Leithien_ in _The Lays of Beleriand_; except for the last quote, which is in prose and is taken from the _Silmarillion_.

* * *

Chapter 1: Concealing

_Into the vast and echoing gloom  
more dread than many-tunnelled tomb  
in labyrinthine pyramid  
where everlasting death is hid,  
down awful corridors that wind  
down to a menace dark enshrined;  
down to the mountain's roots profound,  
devoured, tormented, bored and ground  
by seething vermin spawned of stone;  
down to the depths they went alone..._

There had been two corridors at that point. There had been two corridors many times before, and they had chosen as best they could, whether by figuring what way looked more likely, or by which way seemed to lead further down, or by what they desperately _hoped_ was Lúthien's Foresight - it wasn't as if there were any maps of Angband more recent than the War of the Powers, and the fortress had certainly been rebuilt many times since then. They'd guessed right before. Or, at least, they thought so. There hadn't been any sign otherwise. Nothing in the passages they'd chosen before had looked particularly unlike the route to Morgoth's throne room.

But the passageway since this last turn seemed different. They had only gotten along one bend - though nothing narrowed - before they passed the last alcove with a torch in it and they could see mold growing on the walls as it had never before on any well-trafficked passage. Yet, still, they kept moving through the gathering dark with nary a sign passed between them. Beren, in Draugluin's fierce wolf-form, loped impatiently with the incongruously clean light in his eyes burning bright; Lúthien, in Thuringwethil's hideous bat-like hame, soared above him with every sign of her essence concealed save a faint wiff of clean wild air behind her. If they knew not where they were going, they needed to at least look as if they did. Their whole disguise depended on it. Yes, as Lúthien had sent Carcaroth to sleep at the Gate, a power had come on her unlike anything either of them had seen ever. And, she had indeed said that she might be able to overpower even Morgoth. Still, neither of them would try it unneedfully.

Lúthien's bat-head looked up, and she gave a squawk. Beren looked: there was a gash in the rock roof, about as long as a man was tall, as if something sharp had been dragged against it. Then, only a few steps later, Beren gave a bark. Lúthien looked down: there were three claw marks, separated by the length of a full foot and more, in the rock.

There was then a second bend in the passageway. They took it, even as doubt rose in their hearts. But then, they came upon the firmest sign since they had left the sun and stars behind them: a closed door.

A great slab of rough-hewn rock it was, scratched over from edge to edge as if both Huan and Draugluin had used it as a scratching-post for a Great Year. The slab covered the entire passage from top to bottom and left to right. No guard stood in front of it to let people past; no handle advertised a way to move it aside. There was no way forward.

Lúthien spiraled down even with Beren's wolf-form and looked at him. Firm was her face as she gestured with one wing behind them.

Beren barked with grim resolve. No words had been passed; no words were needed.

But that bark had been enough - and too much. A grinding and rattling was heard from the other side of the rock. Beren made as if to flee. Yet, then, the rock started moving, and he whirled back around to face it. Draugluin would never flee; he would have stood to meet whoever dared open a door in front of him - at least as far as Beren knew. So, he in Draugluin's hame must do likewise or be exposed.

The rock rolled half-back, into the wall, to expose a lizard bending his face around the rock in the dim light. It was nothing like any lizard Beren had seen before. But he had seen spiders like no spiders any mortal had seen before or (Valar willing) would see since. Here in Angband, he had expected such. Beren held his ground.

The lizard spoke. It spoke the twisted dialect of Sindarin that Morgoth's servants used. "Who be you, dog, that descends our walkway to disturb our rest? Do you call us to battle at last?"

Before Beren could answer, another voice came from behind them, "Oh, let them in, Ungfalad. It's not like we're busy."

The stone rolled back more, and a light shone from the cave, and Beren and Lúthien saw a whole fleet of lizards.

They were no lizards.

They were dragons.

They were dragons with wings. Even the worst tales of Glaurung had described well that he could merely crawl along the earth! These dragons, it seemed, could even fly —

Beren leaped to action, old instincts only half-buried by welcome and healing coming to the fore. He jumped back against the wall, instinctively reaching his right hand for a sword hidden under wolf's fur, sweeping out his left arm protectively as if Lúthien were standing beside him. It was a moment afterward that his mind caught up with instincts and remembered that the dragons would have thought him and Lúthien friends.

Or would they? Only one dragon had so far been seen outside Angband, though everyone had known Morgoth was breeding more by whatever dark means he used. Glaurung, Father of Dragons, had led the assault at the Battle of Sudden Flame, marching before even the Balrogs, killing hosts with his breath and teeth and claws and tail. Yet some, Beren had heard, had died in still another way: by the dragon's eyes piercing into their minds.

Could these dragons have pierced their disguises?

Then, to both their shock, an even larger dragon peered out straight at Lúthien and nodded. "Well met, Aunt, if Aunt you be."

* * *

Then Lúthien in garb most foul  
did quail inside, surprised most full  
and knowing not whereof to speak  
without to face four dragons fierce  
foresaking hope to keep the quest  
to war alone for both their lives...

"I be not your aunt," she shrieked in voice like Thuringwethil's, "but another."

"Ah," said the first dragon, Ungfalad. "Who be you then, who bears the accustomed form of another?"

The second, largest of the four, continued with satisfaction, "I smell a smell unlike any other in Angband - a smell I do not think would be possible on one who has lived here. Has our Lord managed to, even at this late date, recruit a new Power into his service? Yet there are few this side of the Fear-Widened Seas; are you perhaps from the host of the traitorous Ossë?"

"But why then would she smell of land-flowers, not seaweed?" challenged Ungfalad.

"Have we ever smelled seaweed before? It's not like we're allowed to go out yet. But even if you've somehow managed to catch a piece of seaweed and smell it, I think Ancalagon's guess is the best," a third dragon put in.

"And let us wait till later to discuss it," the second dragon, Ancalagon, concluded. "Could you give us some clue, You-Who-Are-Not-That-Aunt, if not your name?"

"I am not from the hosts of Ossë," she said, fluttering back a little against a possible escape.

"The land, then," Ungfalad said approvingly. "Are there any Ainur left in Ennor, Pathred?"

The third dragon, Pathred, replied genially, "Oromë the Terrible comes from time to time, but he brings few of his folk with him - unless that sore loser Fingolfin actually was from his lot after all."

"There's Melian," a fourth dragon put in.

"Melian?" Ungfalad scoffed. "Why in the name of our glorious father and all Udûn would she be here?"

"But Malagrag is right," Ancalagon said, waving his tail threateningly. "Melian did stay here in Ennor... which means that other Ainur might have stayed, too. Besides, Our Lord knows full well that Melian had at least one daughter."

Malagrag, the fourth dragon, enthusiastically nodded. "Where there's one, there might be others."

"Wouldn't we have heard of -them, though?" Ungfalad objected.

"Who knows?" Malagrag said. "Since Melian prostrated herself to an Elf, how can we guess what plots are in her mind?"

(Lúthien forceably managed to hold her composure at this.)

"I still think this person's another Ainu who stayed like Melian," Ungfalad said.

"So," Ancalagon concluded, "welcome to Our Lord's service, You-Who-Might-Be-Another-Of-Our-Aunts. Have either of us guessed right?

After a moment's thought, Lúthien squawked, "If you like guessing so much, why shouldn't I leave and let you keep guessing?"

"Because that's no fun!" Pathred exclaimed. A tongue of fire shot from his mouth.

"Pathred!" Ancalagon lashed out his tail at the smaller dragon. "Please," he said to Lúthien, "prithee take but one moment to alleviate our curiosity."

Pathred slunk back a bit further into the cave. Lúthien stared at Ancalagon's mouth, taking care not to match eyes with him. Ancalagon stared at her, as if trying to pick apart her vampire's skin with his gaze. Beren crouched against the wall, trying to stay out of the dragons' notice.

"Very well," Ancalagon replied genially. "You are obviously an Ainu or a child of the Ainur."

"A child of the Ainur?" she replied.

"Aha!" Ungfalad cried, fire leaping from his jaws. "She does not even know Ainur can have children - she must be another stay-behind who refused to hide behind the Fear-Widened Seas!"

"And one unaware of Our Lord's plans," Malagrag continued.

"So we must teach her?" Pathred offered nervously.

Ancalagon exhaled two jets of smoke. "As you evidently have no urgent orders, New Convert, prithee let us explain to you Our Lord's service."

"On what orders?" Lúthien challenged. "We must be leaving urgently. Fare better than you deserve."

She turned to go; Beren leaped up beneath her. Yet, Malagrag leaped forward and - in one quick swoop - thrust his claws down on Beren's body.

Beren howled.

Lúthien darted down, perching just next to Maelgrag's neck. "Release him."

Ignoring Lúthien, Malagrag twisted his neck around to look Beren in the face. Beren squirmed, barking, "What do you want?"

"We want to head out to battle," Pathred whined.

Ancalagon absentmindedly thwacked Pathred with his tail again before lumbering out of the cave. "Ah, he speaks too," he said, looking over toward Beren. "So I see two Ainur, or else one and her companion... Or his lying companion, for that matter." Ancalagon the Dragon glared between Lúthien and Beren.

"What can we say, O dread dragon?" Lúthien said, wings furled. "What will give us credence in your dread eyes?"

From behind, the unquenchable Pathred offered helpfully, "They could swear the Oath again."

A shiver ran through Beren's flesh. He remembered the oath Sauron had demanded of him and of Finrod and of their now-dead comrades. Not one of them had sworn. Not one of them could have sworn.

"He shivers," Malagrag declared. "So this wolf is evidently not an Ainu... perhaps a slave pressed into service by our Maybe-Other-Aunt?"

"And if he is?" Lúthien parried.

"Ah, Malagrag, that's a better idea!" Ungfalad lumbered out beside Ancalagon. "So, Maybe-Other-Aunt, you brought - Malagrag, do you agree we can drop the 'maybe' now?"

"It is the easiest explanation," Malagrag granted. "At least, given this new evidence." He pressed down a bit more on Beren.

"I'll agree," Pathred (still back in the cave) quickly put in.

"Very well," Ancalagon said comfortably. "I believe we have uncovered you, Other-Aunt. You are an Ainu who either stayed here in Ennor instead of leaving for Aman after the Lamps came crashing down, or else left from Aman later. And it is only now you are entering the service of Our Lord. Are we correct?"

"Then may I say I have uncovered you?" Lúthien shrieked.

The dragons laughed. It was deep laughter which set the rocks to rumbling almost as if an earthquake had struck. Small jets of fire and clouds of smoke shot from their nostrils. Ancalagon finally chuckled, "She has wit! And scheming wit, at that, to finally bring it forth after so long! Very well, Other-Aunt who is much more entertaining than Aunt Thuringwethil, and indeed the next-best wonder to finally being able to go into battle ourselves, present your case."

"As you say, I have heard aforetimes only rumors of you, by report passed from mouth to mouth by hearsay of the travelers, saying naught of your origins but only of your father (or perhaps uncle, but I believe he is your proper father) Glaurung's prowess in battle. It was not until I had the honor of speaking with you today that my mind encompassed the awe-filled ways of your generation." She gave a sweeping curtsey - as was proper after such formality.

"Pretty words," Pathred said dismissively, though his face betrayed satisfaction.

Malagrag added, "Do continue."

"There was no such thing as a dragon sung among the Speaking Peoples in the Song, whereas the Elves and Men and even the Great Eagles were sung therein."

Ancalagon interrupted. "You speak of 'the Song' as if it were a single thing of import. Our Lord shall teach you otherwise. But you are correct. Pray continue."

"However, certain Ainur wished forms more suited to war, and they took on flesh as they could do. Some took one shape and were called Balrogs; some took another shape and were called vampires; some, I doubt not, took other shapes still, some of which I have not heard. One took the form of a lizard. His name was Glaurung.

"Or, I suppose, there was another who took on that shape. At least, I hope it was another Ainu and not a kelva. For since Melian bore Lúthien to Elu," (she mentioned her own name with no pause) "it is clear that Ainur in flesh are able to bear children of the same kind of flesh - however few may do so. And those children have some power, but lesser; not the same as the power of Ainur. That is what you are!" She whirled, pointing at Ancalagon. "Thus came the race of dragons: enfleshed children of Glaurung the Maia."

There came a satisfied silence, and then chuckling from Ancalagon. "Very good, Aunt. Precisely correct. Now, let me introduce myself. I am the chief of Glaurung's children, Ancalagon the Black, who will finally be able to join my golden father in his wars this coming year. And you?"

"Call me Thuringwethil, since I bear her shape - and, if I may, her name's meaning."

"Now hold on!" Pathred protested, craning his neck over Ancalagon and Ungfalad. "That's unfair! We introduced ourselves; why not you? Stay in secret shadow all you want, but that's not your name!"

"That's right," said Malagrag. "May I ask you a favor, Mysterious Aunt?"

"You may ask." Lúthien bowed her head momentarily in a single nod.

Instantly, Malagrag dipped his neck down and locked his eyes into Beren's.

* * *

Lúthien immediately thrust her wing between Beren's face and Malagrag, but the dragon had already accomplished his purpose. He turned back to face Ancalagon, and he laughed.

"We've all underestimated her, Ancalagon!"

"Underestimated _her_, you say," Ancalagon repeated. "So the wolf is, like we thought, no Ainu?"

"Indeed," Malagrag said.

Lúthien, deciding most was lost and she needed not to keep her role anymore, knelt down before Beren. She scanned his eyes: still clean; that was good. She whispered to him, "Are you still there?" Beren's tongue quietly came out and licked her hand. "Did it hurt?" Beren shook his head.

Meanwhile, the dragons were still talking. "Underestimated," Ungfalad said. "She is obviously not a spy from Aman, since you aren't attacking her. So, she needs to be a stay-behind like we thought... has she perchance accomplished something great on her own?"

"Or maybe - since she looks so much like Thuringwethil - she's a secret daughter of hers?" Pathred suggested.

"Close," Malagrag said.

"Close!" Ancalagon exclaimed in surprise.

Lúthien, hearing that all was revealed, stood up and interrupted. "Very well, my relatives. Shall I then doff this vampire form -"

"Not at the moment," said Ancalagon, holding up his tail. "Why deny us the pleasure of this wonderful guessing-game? So... She has been hiding in secret and helped Our Lord before, perchance?"

"Or maybe it has something to do with her form?" Pathred suggested. "We know the roster of the vampires, and she is not one of them; is there anything else that form would remind us of?"

There was a moment's nervous silence before Ungfalach replied, "Or perhaps a secret daughter of some other Ainu?"

"Ahh..." Ancalagon slowly exhaled sparks. "Yes... Our Lord would have probably learned had she helped him before; we would have heard of her. Yes, I favor that interpretation. Am I right - Mysterious Cousin, then?"

Malagrag nodded. "Absolutely. Which cousin, shall you guess?"

"Well," Pathred began, "she's obviously not Lúthien -"

Malagrag smiled a wide, toothy smile.

At that moment, Lúthien stood —

* * *

_Hello, both my loyal readers! I'm sorry for the long stretch of no stories, but I've been busy with real life and working on my original fiction. More will come soon, even if only a little more - but the rest of this story is written and will be posted shortly.  
_

_"Thuringwethil," as explained in __Silmarillion__, means "she of secret shadow." "Ennor" is the Sindarin name for the continent of Middle-Earth, east of the Sundering Seas (or "the fear-widened seas," as I have the dragons style them,) as opposed to Aman. A "kelva" is an animal (singular of "kelvar.") "Udûn" is the Sindarin name of Morgoth's original fortress of Utumno._

_Lúthien's statement on the origin of dragons is never precisely stated by Tolkien, but he speculates in that direction in __Morgoth's Ring__. Also, it seems to me to be the explanation that makes the most sense within Tolkien's cosmology - as she says, they were never mentioned in the Song._


	2. Unveiling

_I incorporate by reference the previous disclaimer: Arda and its denizens are copyrighted by the Estate of J. R. R. Tolkien; poetry in italics is by J. R. R. Tolkien, taken from the "Lay of Leithien" in __The Lays of Beleriand__; the right to free speech is protected by the First Amendment to the US Constitution._

* * *

_The vampire dark  
she flung aside, and like a lark  
cleaving through night to dawn she sprang —_  
— but power met her not this time  
as at the gates when Carcaroth  
she overcame and sent to sleep.  
Her cloak itself could overcome  
an Elf, but not an Ainu's child.  
Unarmed she stood before the Worms  
with Beren prone beneath their claws  
deep down in Angband, far beyond  
the light of Stars, or Moon or Sun.

"Lúthien."

From Ancalagon's jaws, her name felt like when Curufin - or even Celegorm - had desecrated it. Reflexively, she wrapped her hair-cloak close about her. It would be worthless here, against dragons who were also children of Ainur, even if she weren't saving her power to use on Morgoth. But she wanted it, wanted to feel it, as she had yearned for it in Nargothrond.

And Beren, oh, Beren —

"Now that you have seen me," she said in an affected-casual voice, "will you not let up my companion?"

Beren sent a desperate look at her. She hoped he wasn't trying to tell her, again, to run and let him bear the danger.

"A very good question," said Malagrag. "What is he to you, Smaller-But-Elder Cousin?"

"I thought you would know that by now, if you'd gone so far as to pull my name from his mind."

"And an ingenious story indeed I learned from him. Perhaps we should go elsewhere so you can tell it more candidly?"

"Or perhaps not!" Lúthien threw in all the venom she had wished to send at Celegorm, who had given her and Beren the same insult.

It worked: Malagrag even looked faintly apologetic for a moment. "My pardon, Smaller-But-Elder Cousin. I should have known better than to doubt your enchantments."

Ancalagon interjected a jet of fire. "Cousin Lúthien, as unexpectedly delightful as your presence is, and as amusing as it is to attempt to deduce what you and Malagrag are discussing, you are hardly providing any clues as to what sort of enchantments you have laid on him."

She declared flatly, "None."

"Not a single clue? Wherefore do you so impede this wonderful guessing-game?"

"No enchantments, I said."

"Come, come," Malagrag said. "Next you will say that this mortal Man took on wolf's skin by his unaided self?"

Stars above - were so few hours underground already scattering her mind? Or was it some dark influence of Angband itself? Whichever, they needed to be moving on soon, to recapture the Silmaril and leave!

But in that less-than-a-second, Pathred had already replied, "So she put this man in wolf's flesh and wants us to release him - that would make me think she's delivering him specifically to Our Lord as a present. At least, that is what I would conclude were she, for instance, Thuringwethil as is her semblance. Yet since she is Lúthien, and we see she has already moved beyond the depth of ordinary amusements to come at long last to bow the knee to Our Lord, and Malagrag alluded to some specific enchantments, there must be some deeper game being played on this mortal."

"Indeed," Ungfalach agreed. "Lúthien might fly from Melian's nets for many reasons - though perhaps she might enlighten us?"

Ungfalach glanced toward Lúthien's face; she emphatically turned her eyes away toward the still-prone and still-silent Beren.

"Lúthien -" Beren whispered.

"No, then?" Ungfalach continued, heedless of Beren. "But her turning toward Our Lord indicates either that she has in a storm of anger rebelled against Melian and thrown off all her teachings, or that she has come to a realization of the vanity of the Valar's ethical restrictions. If the first, I would speculate this Man is some trusted confidant of her mother's."

"But Melian does not trust mortals," Pathred interjected.

"Or at least does not present herself as trusting them," Ancalagon said. "And had Melian a secret mortal counselor, I could readily imagine a rebellious Lúthien binding him to herself with some subtle enchantments as a sign of her own power. Exactly what those enchantments might be, though, I cannot guess as I know no more than rumors of Lúthien's art."

"Nor do I," said Pathred. "It is said she is skilled in dancing, but that is not sufficient information to venture speculation."

Finally, there was enough silence that Lúthien could find words to cast back at these dragons delving their castles deeper and deeper far away from the Stars - "No; I love him!"

"Ah," Ancalagon said. "So that is your method of art! I must bear you a compliment, Cousin Lúthien. None of my brothers have mastered such matters."

"Perhaps you should try to," Lúthien cast back. Her mother had said that Ossë had repented and returned after some time in Morgoth's service. Perhaps - there was a tiny chance - these dragons could, too. Or, at least, they might let Beren up.

"Perhaps," said Malagrag.

Pathred added, "It is said that Our Lord tried to make love to Arien."

Malagrag shook his head. "I do not think Our Lord chose to go about it in as a subtle and ingenious a manner as Lúthien is plotting it."

"Plotting!" Lúthien burst forth. "That is hardly what I would call it - a child at the beginning of her lámatyávë would choose a better word than that!"

Beren spoke up for the first time in a while, "Actually, I think we've done quite a bit of plotting in there..."

"He recognizes it, even! Then should we instead be praising you for not merely the scheming of your art but its power to hold him even though he recognizes it?" Ancalagon said.

As she stared at the dragons and the long-suffering rock of Angband around them, Lúthien saw. She saw what they were speaking of now. Her parents had at least acknowledged love's existence, even if they insisted there were more important things and refused to allow her to follow it. But these dragons saw love set out before them and, not mocking but blind, they praised the light for being magnificent darkness!

Yet as if piecing together a song from its discordant echoes off various hills, Lúthien could see how the dragon's statement could be taken truly. The practice of virtue - such as love - could be called an art. And it was powerful. She could see, she could See, with sight running beyond sight, past the Encircling Seas themselves, as her mother had sung of! Yes, the dragons would speak truer than they themselves knew. And their knowledge... Her Sight wasn't clear enough yet; she would respond once more according to the dragon's pattern, so she could See the paths from the echoing hills down which she could dance to blind her miserable cousins as surely as the light of the Silmarilli.

Putting a smile on her face as when she had called down to Daeron from her prison in Hirilorn, she said, "I thank you, my newfound relatives. My parents, I fear, saw it as a thing that could be bound in and cast off."

"Bound in!" Malagrag exclaimed. "Never, by Udûn! Cousin Lúthien, it would be my pleasure for you to go to war by my side next year, if Our Lord allows."

"It would be my pleasure for you to go to war by my side." (She mentally added, "On the other side.") There was one more thing for her to do with her own hroa-sight: "If I may?"

Kneeling down by Beren, she petted his wolf's-fur up to where Malagrag's claws still held him down. "Just a few more plots to go, Beren," she repeated, feeling the Foresight moving through her. "Be nice, and wait for me, _wait for me..._"

Beren met her eyes for a moment, and his still-clean eyes went wide. Lúthien blinked in shock, wondering what he had seen there. And then, barking like Huan had at the start of a day's ride, Beren let his head droop and rolled his shoulders forward for Lúthien to continue petting him.

Lúthien reached back on Beren's shoulders to Malagrag's claw. "If I may?" she asked the dragon, pushing back on it lightly and hoping with all her heart that he wouldn't see whatever Beren had seen.

Malagrag shifted back, running his claws through Beren's fur without (Lúthien immediately checked) causing a single cut in the skin. Beren shifted forward slightly and wagged his tail: he was free!

"What a charmingly ingenious exhibition," Ungfalach observed. "If I may speak candidly, Cousin Lúthien...?"

"Of course," she said, standing up while leaving her hand resting on Beren's head. She would for one more moment play the spider who ensnared her victims by seeming love, but she would leave herself free for the explosive echo of real music. "Always."

"How deep does the spell run? If, perchance, you did insult and abandon him -"

"She never would," Beren interrupted.

"Of course he says that," Ungfalach acknowledged without even objecting to the interruption.

"Insult him?" Lúthien repeated. Again, she felt words building in her, but they were not yet quite ready. "If by tragedy I did - as a diminished chord in contrast - he would remain true." (She emphasized "true." Hearing, Beren edged further away from the dragons, disguising it as rubbing against Lúthien's skirts.) "If I abandoned him, would he not be confident I would return with, for instance, the wolf's-pelt and bat-hame to sneak here into Angband?"

"What an enduring spell," Ancalagon said.

"Would you like to learn such?" Lúthien shot back, giving him one more offer. "I See this might be your doom."

"I am confident I am skilled in the art from my golden father. But perhaps we could discuss it later?"

Later? That had been the death of the Leaguer. "Later? I do not See myself coming back to these caverns."

"Then if we shall leave them too, I will be glad."

"Leave?" She drew herself up as the full Sight poured into her eyes. "Nay:  
The day on which you leave these caves,  
The day you fly outside in war,  
The day your dragon's-wings are seen  
by eyes in light of Stars or Sun -  
ere Sunrise next you shall be slain.  
Your wings shall rise most awful, but  
the dawn shall drown Ancalagon.  
And all the pits of Angband deep  
shall opened to the Daylight be!

Pathred thrust forward between the three other dragons. "Treason! Treason!"

"Thus I prophesy," Lúthien concluded. "May you fare better than I Saw." She picked up the doffed bat-hame and quickly moved her fingers, dancing herself into it.

"Hold - she mentioned Ancalagon's name specifically," Ungfalach pointed out. "Cousin Lúthien, did you -"

The bat-hame was on already. With one more brush of Beren's fur, she turned, and they both fled as if all the dragons of Angband were after them.

_Loud came a singing harsh and fierce  
like swords of terror souls to pierce.  
Red was the glare through open doors  
of firelight mirrored on brazen floors,  
and up the arches towering clomb  
to glooms unguessed, to vaulted dome  
swathed in wavering smokes and steams  
stabbed with flickering lighting-gleams.  
To Morgoth's hall, where dreadful feast  
he held, and drank the blood of beast  
and lives of Men, they stumbling came._

* * *

_No, this's not the end! One more chapter will follow this weekend, showing some of the consequences of this unexpected meeting. In the meantime, thank you to my one reviewer so far. Yes, I'm sure the dragons do consider this fun... and I'm glad if their amusement came through to you. Everyone else, please review! I'd love to hear what you think!_

_Hroa - body.  
Lámatyávë - essentially, the point where an elf-child comes to appreciate the sound of words. Discussed in "Laws and Customs of the Eldar."  
_


	3. Succeeding

_Middle-Earth and all its inhabitants remain copyrighted by the Estate of J. R. R. Tolkien. The passage in italics is quoted from the __Silmarillion__, by J. R. R. Tolkien and Christopher Tolkien._

* * *

Betwixt Silmaril, and Carcaroth, and Eagles, and hunting, and Mandos, and a return like none before it or after it, and finally Ossiriand and peace at last, and after that (it seemed any more would be anticlimax, save the last adventure still to come outside the Circles of the World, but she who had been surprised by Mandos was surprised yet again) the baby Dior, it was long before Lúthien's mind turned again to that hour.

It was a spring's day, as it had been a spring's day when Lúthien and Beren had arisen again in Middle-Earth. Dior was still young, but he had grown, and Lúthien had taken him down to the edge of the island while Beren was at the house forging a coat-clasp for a group of Green-Elves.

"Mama," Dior said suddenly, looking up from the river where he'd been playing, "'Rinna said Glaurung was out again?"

"Yes, Dior, but he's a long ways away."

"But are there other dragons, Mama?"

"They're all shut up in Angband, Dior, and they won't be coming out to do anything."

"But why, Mama? Did Morgoth 'slave them too?"

For the first time in a long while, Lúthien saw again the four dragons in Angband and heard her voice foretelling the doom of their leader... "No, Dior, but it's said that one of them will die if he ever leaves."

"Oh. That's sad." Dior looked down briefly and caught sight of a frog. The old worries evaporated from Lúthien's mind, as if shut away by the Girdle, as she watched her son merrily chasing the frog down the riverbank. She slowly walked down the shore, following him.

It was maybe a half-hour before Lúthien found a bird's carcass only slightly ripped by whatever animal had killed it. She looked around for some sticks to bury it with or at least cover it. But, as she was picking at the earth, Dior came back to her looking confused.

"Yes, Dior?" she asked, setting down the sticks. She had already told him a while back about the death of animals and mortals, but perhaps he wanted comfort again, like the elves who had long ago seen Bëor on his deathbed.

"Mama? I was looking at the frog, and... It was a tadpole once, and now it's a frog. Right?"

"Yes."

"And 'Rinna said that you're related to the dragons. Right?"

Lúthien wondered for a moment what in all Ennor, Arda, and Ëa that Tirinna had thought she was telling Dior. "Some people say we are," she said carefully. "Your Grandmother Melian is an Ainu, and Glaurung was an Ainu as well before he became a dragon. Some people say the Ainur are all brothers and sisters. But they aren't anything like..." (She was an only child; Beren was close enough to one since she didn't want to tell Dior about the ruin of Dorthonion now) "... like Tirinna and her sisters."

"Oh." Dior frowned briefly. "So you are, sort of, related to them? At least, some people say so?"

"Well, some people say so. The dragons say so. But we don't listen to dragons, do we?"

"No, we don't, Mama," Dior solemnly repeated. "But... 'Rinna says so, and we can listen to her!"

She would take another tack. "What if we did listen to her? We're related to... Eöl, too."

"Who's he?"

"He lived by himself in the middle of the woods before he vanished, and we don't know where he is. See? We're related to him, but it doesn't mean anything."

"Oh." He looked disappointed, again. "So does that mean you can't make yourself look like a dragon?"

"Well, Dior, why would you want me to do that and scare everyone?"

"Well, Mama... I just thought it'd be so interesting to change your skin. And you said you and Daddy put on other skins way back when, since you're Ainur or whatever."

"Yes, Dior, but not anymore now that we have you." She remembered how Draugulan had been unable to change his skin under Huan's claws, and how Thuringwethil had been similarly caught unable to flee... She had lost that part of her talent in a nobler manner, and in a brighter form, and hopefully with better consequences, but just as lost.

"Well, Mama, could you try?"

"Try?"

"To turn into something else!"

"Why would I want to look like a dragon now?"

"Not a dragon - just something, please? Try?"

Dior looked at Lúthien so pleadingly that she was forced to nod. "All right, Dior, I'll show you how I used to do it."

Dior's face brightened like the stars. "Yes! Thank you, Mama!"

Lúthien stood up, shook the dirt off her skirts, and then picked up the dead bird. She stood with it in her hands for a moment... why had she found it now, just before Dior had asked her this? Whether or not, she would try... She started dancing the dance she remembered very well even though she hadn't sung it for years. (Years, she marveled again? To be overjoyed for mere sunroundings, she who had once counted the Great Years!)

And as she danced, she felt her arms growing wide, and saw her neck lengthening, to her amazement... She waved her arms to test, and she flew up into the air!

So, she thought suddenly, if she could still transform even after bearing a child - what had locked the dragons in their shape? Was it bearing multiple children? Was it some part of their Morgoth-worship? She suddenly wished she could ask her mother whether she could still transform...

And Dior burst forth in glee, "Mama! Mama! You're a nightingale!"

"Well, of course she is!" Beren's voice came from just down the path. "That's what I called her when I first -" He emerged into the clearing and looked in shock at Lúthien's transformed shape. "You show yourself more and more amazing every day, Lúthien!"

* * *

The mind of Ancalagon, however, turned to that hour nearly every day of his life.

"It appears our Smaller-But-Elder Cousin was more angry at us than we thought," Malagrag said placidly. "Perhaps she was for some reason embarrassed about her Art?"

"We know not what lies Melian taught her," Ungfalach said. "Perhaps she has not yet fully freed her own mind. Yet, all the same, methinks we should rather be discussing the prophecy she was pleased to disclose unto us -"

"A prophecy?" Malagrag laughed. "Come, Ungfalach, what are the chances of a true prophecy coming at a momentary encounter such as this, from one who has already submitted to Our Lord?"

"Yet were she one to deliver a prophecy in mere pretense, would she not have done so earlier? For instance, when we were debating her identity and she proposed to take off her vampire-hame, would she not have pretended to prophesy to stimy us?"

Ancalagon, his mind chilled by Lúthien's words, stayed silent while the other two dragons - with interjections from Pathred - bickered. It was a prophecy. He was sure of it: he had glimpsed the Light of lights in her eyes and smelled the West wind at her feet. It had been for a mere instant, but he had sensed it past denying. She had prophesied of him; she had prophesied his death; what could he do?

What he could do was sleep. The West wind came to his nostrils again, wafting by some course beyond the imagination of those who had excavated the halls of Angband so long ago. He sniffed it and wondered briefly whence and wherefore it came, but he was too deep in thought to do anything before the wind sent him into sleep. Dreams came to him, but such dreams as he would consider happy: dreams of hot blood and fresh meat and deep riddles to unwravel.

And then he woke.

Morgoth was in an uproar, and all Angband with him. Though the dragons were still not allowed out in war, they were called for post haste to sit in each gateway and allow none out. Apparently, not merely had Draugluin's form been taken by someone still unidentified (no dragon even considered mentioning that they had talked with the false Draugluin), but Carcaroth had abandoned his post, and all werewolves were now suspect. However irritated they were at still not being allowed outside Angband, the dragons were legitimately shocked and concerned, and they took their guard responsibilities in good humor. Nothing came of it, of course, except heading off stray orcs and a few not-yet-cowed thralls who had overestimated the disarray. Still, they were pleased to be doing something - and something which gave them reasonable time to think.

A while later, when Angband was back in some semblance of order, the dragons reassembled and repeated to one another what they had heard of the failed searches for Lúthien and her still-unidentified companion, the sighting of Eagles flying south, and the madness of Carcaroth. And, of course, it had been impossible to hide that even Morgoth had fallen asleep. What was more, he had lost a Silmaril!

There was much debate about these things, of course. Perhaps, Malagrag ventured, they should have alerted people at once to an new Ainu-child's presence. Pathred agreed that they should have detained her or at least demanded from her the Oath, especially when she was found to be the despicable Melian's daughter. Ancalagon roused himself from his thoughts to remark that she had never taken the Oath or even once referenced Morgoth as Lord. In fact, there was no proof she had not been working at her mother's bidding all along! Ungfalach agreed and pointed out her obvious prior arrangement with the eagles. At Ungfalach's lead, they unanimously congratulated Lúthien on her skillful deception and resolved to themselves do better next time.

"Which brings us to the final subject," Ancalagon declared. "The prophecy."

"I am still unsure whether it was a prophecy," Malagrag said. "To be sure, this recent news renders Lúthien a more likely prophet than we thought before. Nonetheless, would it not also render her more likely to issue to us a mere challenge?"

"That was no challenge," Pathred said. "When Our Lord was challenged long ago, the sore loser - Fingolfin - spoke statements about the present. Lúthien, rather, spoke of the future!"

"Indeed," Ancalagon said. "Moreover, having watched her closely while she said that, I am fully certain she was prophesying. Even should you call me a liar -" (protests arose, but Ancalagon shouted over them; he had chosen that strong word intentionally to manipulate them into agreement) "- think again of the terrible fate she predicted for us; I tell you, remain safe!"

After a minute, Ungfalach dominated the commotion. "For us? For us all? Was she not speaking solely to you, Ancalagon? Did she not mention your name specifically?"

"She mentioned me rather as our representative," Ancalagon replied quickly before the other dragons could consider Ungfalach's words. "All the qualities referenced are true of every one of us. Apart from that one line, the prophecy discusses us all: whenever any of us leave these halls and fly, ere sunrise next, we shall surely die!"

"'Fly outside in war,'" Malagrag corrected him. "Flying outside in peace is still allowed."

"And which of us is insipid enough to fly without warring? Even if any here is such an egg-claw, would Our Lord not order us to war were we already flying? And thus, he would condemn us all to death!"

"Surely we could explain?" Ungfalach interjected.

"By explaining to Our Lord that we had spoken with Lúthien and told him not?"

"Well, surely that encounter..." Pathred began.

"Must stay secret, as must the prophecy," Ancalagon interrupted. "Therefore, let us wait in here and remain in safety against the terrible prophecies of Lúthien."

He scanned his brother dragons' faces. They looked confused. But, to his satisfaction, they all seemed to accept the story he had spun. For the first time since Lúthien had voiced the prophecy, he relaxed. He might yet escape the terrible doom prophesied, for some reason, against him specifically. Moreover, despite being bound to the pits of Angband, he just might stay leader of his generation of dragons! Glaurung his father would be upset, and his Lord would be enraged, but he could bear that.

He could, perhaps, survive.

* * *

The challenge of Eönwë sounded, and the trumpets of the West resounded over the mountains of Thangorodrim. Their cry went out through all the lands, and their sound penetrated even down to the dungeons of Angband. Morgoth heard, and he was incensed; Ancalagon heard, and he was terrified.

Ancalagon the Black, foremost of the dragons since his father Glaurung's death (though he had taken to himself the title as soon as he had heard Glaurung had settled down in Nargothrond), glared at the Balrog that had been sent to his deep cavern. To his satisfaction, the Balrog quailed before his stare.

"What say you, Smaller Uncle?" he finally growled.

"O Foremost of Dragons," the Balrog chattered, "Our Lord instructs you and your valient brothers to fly forth against the foe!"

"Fly forth?" Ancalagon growled. He glanced ceremoniously across the long line of his fellow dragons by his side. To his satisfaction, since the day he had misinterpreted Lúthien's prophecy, not one of them had dared leave Angband. His secret doom remained secret, and his throne - as the savior of the race of winged dragons - remained unchallenged.

"Yes!" the Balrog said. "Our Lord commands it, at once!"

"Did he indeed command it?" Ancalagon challenged.

"Yes!" The Balrog stood firm.

This, Ancalagon mused, could be bad. The other dragons were beginning to look back and forth nervously. He couldn't go forth; he would die. He couldn't send any others forth; if they survived, he would be uncovered as a liar, and the other three who had heard Lúthien's prophecy might even figure out what it really said. Or, perhaps he could send some weaker dragons who might get killed even though they weren't covered by the prophecy? Perhaps, but it would be a horrible risk...

The sound of marching feet was heard at the door to the cavern. Before Ancalagon could think of anything to do, a captain of orcs and his troops entered. The captain approached Ancalagon and inclined his head with the merest semblance of respect. "Ancalagon the Black: Our Lord most preemptorally commands you, all business and excuse being laid aside, to appear in person with all those dragons of military age before the lines of battle to fight in the war!"

His excuses were at an end. This night, he would die.

Ancalagon nodded. "Let us then go to fight."

* * *

_Morgoth quailed, and he dared not come forth himself. But... out of the pits of Angband there issued the winged dragons, that had not before been seen; and so sudden and ruinous was the onset of that dreadful fleet that the host of the Valar was driven back, for the coming of the dragons was with great thunder, and lightning, and a tempest of fire._

_But Eärendil came, shining with white flame, and about Vingilot were gathered all the great birds of heaven and Thorondor was their captain, and there was battle in the air all the day and through a dark night of doubt. Before the rising of the sun Eärendil slew Ancalagon the Black, the mightiest of the dragon-host, and cast him from the sky; and he fell upon the towers of Thangorodrim, and they were broken in his ruin._

_Then the sun rose, and the host of the Valar prevailed._

* * *

_Sunrounding - year (as opposed to the Elves' "Great Year" of 144 sunroundings).  
Ennor - The continent of Middle-Earth._

Thank you for reading!

This story grew out of my puzzling over why Morgoth didn't release the winged dragons until the final battle of the War of Wrath. For that matter, until then, we don't see a single dragon aside from Glaurung! He could hardly be holding them in reserve, because he didn't expect any attack from Valinor. So what is it?

One evening, I realized who had sneaked into Angband and might have done something to the winged dragons: Lúthien. And ever after, Morgoth was trying to undo that "something." I told this to one of my friends; he liked the idea and suggested the "something" might have been a prophecy. The rest quickly followed from there.

I'm trying to bring Tolkien's hints together into a somewhat-coherent theory of skin-changing. The mechanism is completely mysterious; I'm guessing it involves singing (hey, that formed all Ëa!) and/or dancing. What's needed, we can guess from Huan's bringing the bat-hame and wolf-pelt: Lúthien couldn't just form a new body but needed an existing (dead) body to change into. (Of course, we know full Ainur are exempt from this requirement.) Who can do it? Obviously, Ainur and their children... but what of Beorn? Or what of Finrod? And even more mysteriously, what of all the dragons and balrogs and other creatures of Morgoth who don't change their shape even when it'd be a very good idea for them to do so? Tolkien speculated on that last question in Morgoth's Ring. Perhaps, after someone has begotten or born a child, they can't shift shape. I had to throw that idea out, thanks to Elwing. His second suggestion survived, though: perhaps worshiping Morgoth somehow leads to losing your ability to skin-change.

Lúthien probably won't investigate the matter further at the moment, though.


End file.
